


Family's Where You Find It

by AlwaysKatie7



Category: Derry Girls (TV)
Genre: Gen, T rating is mainly because of Michelle's mouth, but mostly just the girls James and the shared braincell between them, getting up to some antics, in which James slowly becomes a Derry girl!!!!, mild pre-James/Erin subtext because I'm self indulgent, spoilers for s1 and s2 obvs, this is mainly a missing moments fic of found family bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-02-15 18:08:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18674809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysKatie7/pseuds/AlwaysKatie7
Summary: James misses London. Until he doesn't. With the girls by his side, he thinks he may have finally found something in Derry that is better than what he left behind.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Since I've read every fic in the Derry Girls tag, I decided it was about time that i contribute. Originally this was going to be a one shot of James x the girls bonding at different points in the series, but it quickly evolved into a 14k long fic, so I've decided to separate it into three parts. The whole thing is already written, so the next two updates will be fast. 
> 
> Please keep in mind that an American wrote this who still sees the name Gerry and reads it as "Gary" even though she _knows_ it's actually pronounced "Jerry." I decided to tell the whole thing in James' POV because I figured my knowledge of English dialect is slightly better than my knowledge of Northern Irish, but there's no doubt in my mind that I made numerous mistakes. My apologies. We really can only try.

The thing of it was, if James were being truly honest, he had to say that Derry was starting to get on his nerves. No less than two weeks ago, he’d been in London with his old mates, and his stepdad, and a multitude of strangers on the street he didn’t care to know and who didn’t care to know him in return, happily oblivious to Derry altogether. He could walk into the grocery or catch a ride on the tube or wander through St. James’ Park and not be noticed by a single, solitary soul. In London, everyone minded themselves, kept their heads down, and went their own way, living out their average lives and letting everyone else live out theirs. Between the locals bent on getting to work and back home again as quickly as possible and the tourists wandering around aimlessly, maps in hand, the streets were always crowded enough to disappear.

 

In London, his days were all the same. Not in a monotonous way, exactly, but in the easy, comfortable way of a familiar routine. In the mornings after his mum had left for work, he ate a bowl of rice cereal and skim milk. Then he went to school—a _normal_ school, which he got to attend _with other boys_. While he was far from popular there, he wasn’t exactly unpopulareither. He existed in some blissful middle ground where nobody paid much mind to him one way or the other. In the evenings, if his mum was out, he and Paul would eat dinner in front of the telly, watching reruns of Doctor Who. On Sundays, the three of them went together to the small catholic church two blocks from their flat. Sometimes, when the weather was warm enough, they took holidays to the coast. He and his mum and his stepdad were—or, _had been_ , a small, mismatched little family. There was a lot to be said for London, James thought. Best of all, when he was there it didn’t matter one wit that he was English, because being English was something of an expectation when one lived in England. The same was not so in Derry, where being English was the apparent equivalent of a cardinal sin. Everythingwas different in Derry. In London, James…well…he’d blended. He’d been essentially a nobody, a nearly invisible inhabitant of a vast city. And he had absolutely not minded it.

 

He missed London. A lot.

 

Derry was a different creature entirely.

 

It felt as though he’d stepped through C.S. Lewis’ bloody wardrobe, only instead of finding Narnia out the other side, he’d landed in a den of less than amiable wolves. In Derry, there was hardly room to breathe. James constantly, infuriatingly, felt _aware_ of himself. And it seemed as though everyone else was always aware of him, too. It was a small town, small enough for everyone to know everyone else, or at least claim that hey did. From the moment he and his mum had stepped foot on Irish soil, it seemed that the entire population of Derry had immediately been made aware of Cathy McGuire returning from her London escapades, freshly divorced and with the English son she’d never aborted in tow. This wasn’t exactly the foundation for a welcoming reception. Stares seemed to follow him wherever he went. At the shops, the cashiers never seemed to understand what he was asking for—or else they pretendednot to. Out on the sidewalks, the locals whispered amongst themselves and sometimes sent him glares. Hell, even his own Aunt Deirdre and her daughter, Michelle, seemed to dislike him.

 

Stepping into Derry was like stepping out onto an alien planet: an endless stretch of unfamiliar terrain, a landscape and people he couldn’t understand or navigate, and no foreseeable way out of any of it. And things just kept get weirder. The news here, which always seemed to be playing on everyone’s televisions at all hours, spoke only of bombs and gunmen and the turmoil of civil war. His mum and Auntie Deirdre, meanwhile, spent every dinner staring at each other with narrowed eyes, their mutual silence extending amongst the whole party and only broken occasionally so that one of them could snap a terse comment at the other. James didn’t know what all was between them, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out. It made him glad he didn’t have any siblings of his own.

 

Then he’d been told that he couldn’t go to the boys’ school, because he’d probably be used as a punching bag by the students and end up in hospital with a coma. So, with no room to protest, James had found himself suddenly wearing a green blazer to match Michelle’s, sat on a bus on its way to Our Lady Immaculate College, where he was to be the first male student. On his first day alone, more had happened to him than happened in a year at his old school. He’d not only gotten in trouble for bullying a first year and weeing in a bin, but to top it off, he’d then been all but directly accused of killing a nun during detention. The few days since then had hardly been an improvement. In fact, they’d been downright worse off, because not only was he stuck in Derry permanently now, he was stuck here permanently without his mother, who had up and left for London and decided to leave him behind in the process, without saying so much as goodbye. _And_ he still hadn’t found a bloody school lavatory he was actually permitted to use!

 

He had made it through one full week of school. Now he only had about a billion more to go. He wasn’t sure he’d last. It was a Friday night, after all, and he was lying on his bed—or rather, on the mattress in Aunt Deirdre and Uncle Harold ’s spare bedroom, tossing a stress ball into the air repeatedly whilst wondering when he’d be able to get back to his real life. He liked his Aunt and Uncle, and even Michelle, quite a lot considering how much they fundamentally scared him. And he was very grateful they had agreed to take him on, he really was. But despite how many times Aunt Deirdre told him, rather brashly, that her “good for nothing sister” wasn’t worth his tears, and despite the small part of him that believed her—he missed his mum quite a lot. And Paul. And the life he’d shared with them in London, which admittedly seemed to have been put on pause long before he’d left it behind to come to Derry.

 

His mum had left him a note the say she left. It said only to be good and that she’d be in touch with him soon (she hadn’t been). There was no mention of her coming back ‘round for him.

 

At school, he was making absolutely no headway in finding friends of his own. Instead he clung desperately to Michelle’s side, not knowing where else it was okay for him to be. He’d fallen in with her friend group as a result (though with Michelle’s quips at him every five seconds, he wasn’t really sure it was okay to be with them, either). Her friends were an odd mix, but he liked them. They were unusual, nothing like the friends he’d had in London—which was the first change he found himself not really minding. He had to keep reminding himself that they weren’t really _his_ friends. They were Michelle’s, and he was the intruder butting in as a sort of unwanted, uninvited fifth wheel. He thought he might be annoying Michelle by tagging along with them all the time, so he’d tried to lay off them the past day or so. The only problem was that none of the other girls at Our Lady seemed to want to associate with an English chap, and Michelle and her friends, probably out of base pity at the sight of him staring around the crowded canteen blankly, had pulled him over to their table for lunch all the same.

 

But it was Friday night now, which meant no school for an entire weekend and subsequently nothing to do and no one to see. His Aunt and Uncle were both working late shifts tonight, and Michelle would probably be running ‘round with some bloke or another, as she did every time she had so much as a spare 15 seconds. That left James to stay in the house alone, throwing that damn ball up in the air and catching it all evening like a total twat.  

 

“We’re leaving!” his uncle shouted up the stairs. Michelle yelled back a stunted acknowledgement, and moments later James heard the front door slam, signaling that his aunt and uncle had officially left for work. James glanced at the little alarm clock resting on his new bedside table. It was only 7 o’clock. He still had hours before he might be successful at falling asleep. He threw the ball back up again in frustration.

 

He missed it on the way down due to the loud commotion that sounded suddenly from Michelle’s bedroom next door. The next minute, his cousin had barreled her way into his room, duffel bag slung over her shoulder and full bottle of vodka in her hand. “What the feck are you doing? You’re supposed to be ready by now, ball-ache.”

 

James propped himself up on his elbows so he could look at her properly. She was slouching against his door frame, looking at him with her signature expression of disdain, like she had something particularly sour in her mouth which she was being forced to swallow. He tried desperately to remember what it was he was supposed to be ready for, but nothing came to him. She couldn’t possibly be inviting him along on her date… so she must be messing with him. “What?” he said blankly.

 

Michelle was now looking at him as though he had five heads. He didn’t think he had ever felt dafter.

 

“Erin’s?” she barked, as if stating the obvious. He could only stare back at her, even more confused than before. Erin’s? What was he was supposed to go to Erin’s for? “ _Jesus_ James. do you even _listen_ when we talk? We’re staying over too, so you better find some pajamas, no one wants to see ye in your pants.”

 

James’ felt his cheeks heating up. “How do you know I sleep in—You know what, don’t answer that.”

 

Michelle ignored him, digging through his closet until she’d found his knapsack and tossing it over his face. “Be ready in 5 minutes.”

 

He stopped her just before she’d reached his door, “Michelle, are you playing a joke on me, or am I really invited to this?” Now that he thought about it, he _did_ remember Erin saying something at school about a sleepover that evening, but he’d brushed it off, just assuming she was talking to the others and not to him. They’d only known him for a week, after all.

 

“Do you really think I’d let an English fella stay alone in me house?” answered Michelle in her usual tone of dismay. “Catch yourself on, James. And hurry up with the packing, you’re down to 4 minutes now.”

 

He couldn’t help it, he let slip a grin. For all Michelle’s words, James knew she wouldn’t _actually_ let him come along if she didn’t mind him being there. He tossed the stress ball aside as she left the room, springing up from the bed to throw some clothes and his toothbrush into his bag.

* * *

 

His first thought upon seeing Erin’s bedroom was that it was very _her_. It wasn’t like he’d actually known her long enough to make such an inference, and before stepping foot in it he couldn’t have predicted what the room would look like. Still, once he’d entered it, he could immediately see her handprints all over it. The room was a little untidy—with miscellaneous clothes thrown here and there and a cluttered desk thrust off to one side—but not quite to the point of being messy. On one wall, a white bookshelf was packed full, jammed with books and journals shoved into it both horizontally and vertically so that there was not even a sliver of empty space. The room was decorated in popular band posters and family photographs, and Erin had pinned handwritten notes of self-encouragement randomly over her walls.

 

Their night in had been an immensely enjoyable one. Michelle was nice enough to share her bottle of vodka with the group, and they passed it amongst themselves while sitting cross-legged in a circle on Erin’s carpet, gossiping between them. Orla had spent the first hour painting her fingernails in red polish, on Erin’s bed nonetheless, much to her cousin’s anger Upon finishing her last pinky she’d convinced James’ to let her do his, and he was now swigging sips of his vodka soda with one hand while the other rested on Orla’s lap, his thumb and forefinger still waiting to be painted. Meanwhile, Michelle and Erin were arguing about who the best ride in Derry was (Erin was putting up a strong case for David Donnelly, in James’ opinion, but Michelle was absolutely unconvinced), as Clare told James all about her recommitment to helping out the orphans in Africa. “I know I failed at the whole fasting thing, but then as I was walking home, I couldn’t stop _thinkin’_ about those 25 miles Kamal walks, back and forth….” James’ just kept on nodding, which seemed to be the only reaction she expected from him. At some point, they’d ordered a pizza, which they split evenly amongst themselves and ate off paper plates on Erin’s floor.

 

By one o’clock, they were sprawled across Erin’s bed and carpet asleep—or well, most of them. For some reason, James couldn’t seem to get to bed. Insomnia had become a bit of a regular thing since he’d come to Derry, but that was usually only because he was lying in bed miserable, either in pure panic over the trouble he’d already gotten himself into since starting school, or else plagued by the fear that his mother would never come back for him. He wasn’t miserable now. In fact, he was beginning to think that perhaps Michelle’s friends really could be his friends, too.

 

The floor squeaked, pulling him out of his stupor. He raised himself into a sitting position, trapped between Orla and Michelle on Erin’s floor, to find Erin hovering over him. She was perched on the edge of her bed, which she was sharing with Clare. “James?” she whispered, “you’re awake?”

 

“Can’t fall asleep,” he admitted. Erin stood up, padding over to him, her feet carefully side stepping the lump of blankets that was Orla.

 

Above him, she held out her hand. “Me neither, and I’m _starving_. Do you want to eat some crisps?”

 

James blinked up at her, wondering if she was serious. It was the middle of the night! Then again, she seemed serious enough, so he grabbed her hand and allowed her to help him up and steer him out of the room. Together, they crept into her family’s kitchen.

 

It was only once Erin had dug out a packet of salt and vinegar crisps from the pantry and popped open the bag as quietly as possible that she looked at him, blinking in his face through the dim light. “So…is wee Derry to your liking so far?” She held out the packet for him, and he grabbed a few crisps to stall for time, trying to think about how to word his answer without coming off as offensive. Erin just grinned at him knowingly and continued, “Aye, of course it’s not. I can’t blame you, coming from the big city an’ all. Still, _London_ ,” she made a face of disgust, as if to remind him just what she thought of England. It was James’ chance to grin.

 

“London isn’t all bad!” he protested halfheartedly, “I can at least go to the boys’ school there without worrying about ending up dead.”

 

“What now, and miss out on our guerilla war _and_ Jenny Joyce’s day-of-the-week mornin’ assembly songs? That wouldn’t be _nearly_ so fun.”

 

They sat across from one another at the end of the kitchen table, passing the packet of crisps, which was already half empty, back and forth between them. “ _Jesus_ that vodka made me hungry,” Erin exclaimed, grabbing another handful. Reflected in the dim glow from the single light she’d switched on, her hair seemed covered in golden specs. James had to look away to stop from blushing, or at least to stop her from noticing. He knew enough already to know that he wasn’t allowed to get a crush on Erin, of all people. Michelle would probably kill him, and not gently at that.

 

“Look James,” Erin continued, suddenly sounding rather formal. Even her back seemed to straighten in her chair. “I want you to know that—that I’m sorry about your first day and all.”

 

“Oh, please don’t be. Besides, it was Michelle’s fault for going off on that first-year on the bus in the first place”

 

“Aye, too true, too true. Still, we’re not _always_ like that, us girls.” James raised his eyebrows at her, clearly skeptical. “Well, okay, _Orla’s_ always like that, and Michelle, with the comments, that’s pretty typical… And, all right, Clare _can_ be a bit…. You know what? Actually that day was a pretty fair representation.” Her eyes met James’, and they collapsed into one of those laughters that seems to stretch on endlessly, where even once you think you’ve recovered, eye contact alone is enough to set you off again, until eventually you can’t remember what had you laughing in the first place.

 

“It was just _such_ an unfortunate time for Sister Declan to snuff it!” said James in a gasp of air, remembering Sister Michael’s face as Orla propped up the poor dead woman, with Erin half out the window and he peeing in a bucket. The image of it sent both of them into another spurt of rolling laughter, until they could hardly stop to breathe. He was positive it was the most he’d laughed since coming to Derry.

 

Finally, Erin composed herself enough to continue the old conversation.  “That wasn’t what I was sayin’ sorry for, anyway. I meant,” she grew serious again, and James’ smile faded, “that I’m sorry your Ma up and left ya while we were in detention. And that she didn’t say goodbye to you an’ all. That’s dead awful.”

 

James handed the crisps back to her, suddenly not feeling very hungry. It was odd, how straightforward they could all be about his mum and her sudden departure. The day it had happened, Aunt Deirdre had told him, rather bluntly, to dry his eyes, because his mum wasn’t worth crying over, and her and Michelle had since had no problem spewing insults at Kathy in front of him, despite him always jumping in with hasty defenses on his mum’s behalf. And now here Erin was, calling his mum out too, albeit with refreshingly more tact. Back home, when practically his whole school had known that James’ mum was running around on his stepdad, or later, when they’d heard about the messy divorce, even his closest mates had skirted the issue. No one seemed to want to bring it up and risk James’ reaction, and so the knowledge stayed carefully locked away, known but never spoken of. Here in Derry, it was like no one could resist saying their bit, speaking their mind, and by extension getting involved in everyone else’s business.

 

“It’s not a big deal, really,” James began, rehashing the same speech he’d gotten used to delivering to Auntie Deirdre and Michelle, “Mum’s quite busy. She’s thinking about starting her own business, you know….”

 

Erin interrupted, “Doesn’t that make it worse? She’s got time to start her own business, has she, but she can’t be bothered with her own wean?” Erin scoffed, as if the thought alone was enough to disgust her.

 

James snatched back the crisps packet angrily, shoving some more into his mouth instead of answering. She had a point, really, but he didn’t want to _talk_ about it. Hell, he barely knew her!

 

“Ack, sorry again James,” Erin said hastily, obviously having accurately gauged his reaction, “I shouldn’t have said that. Me ma is always sayin’ I come on too strong. Not that I’m, ye know, coming _on_ ta you. I only meant that—”

 

James had to grin a little at her fumbling. He didn’t know what it was, exactly, but something about her made him feel like she was worth confiding in. “No, you’re right,” he said abruptly, cutting her rambling short, “It does make it worse. I guess I just didn’t think she’d actually leave.”

 

They sat in silence for a few minutes, passing the last of the crisps back and forth until the bag was finally empty, lost in their respective thoughts. Then finally Erin said, “Well, you have us girls now.” She crumbled the empty bag in her hand. James’ half-smiled, the corners of his lips just upturned. Maybe he did. And if they were all he had, maybe that wasn’t so bad. “C’mon,” Erin continued, “We’d better get back in there before one of them notice we’ve gone or they’ll think we’ve gotten up to something in here. I will  _not_ let Michelle think I’m ridin’ the wee English fella!”

* * *

 

 

The months seemed to pass more quickly now than they had when he’d first moved here. James had the sneaking suspicion that he was getting what they called  _used to_ Derry. It was an odd thought.

 

The end of the school year was just around the corner now, and then it would be the summer holiday, his first summer in Derry. He was looking forward to days of walking along the Foyle and licking ice creams carelessly, without homework, without revision, and without a thing to do in the world. It would be nice to have to chance to relax. Unfortunately, that day was not today. He was piling books out of his locker and into his bag when Clare came bursting down the corridor, her long blonde hair flying behind her and her face a nasty shade of red which only seemed to emphasize just how furious she seemed. James hastily stood up, stepping out in front of her and sending her to a raging halt. “Clare! What’s the matter with you?”

 

His friend looked up at him, and despite her angry expression, he could tell she was close to tears. James quickly glanced around. The hallway was empty. Most everyone had already left for the day, still buzzing over the latest edition of the school paper. The only reason James was still here was because he’d stayed for Chess Club, which he’d joined earlier in the year in a last ditch effort to make other friends apart from the girls. It had been a futile effort, because, as Michelle succinctly put it, “Only eejits play chess.” He pulled Clare over to one of the benches. “What’s happened?”

 

Clare’s whole body seemed to sag into the bench as her anger ebbed away. She wiped furiously at her eyes. “Oh, I suppose you’re gonna find out soon enough anyway. That stupid essay in the paper…I wrote it, James. It’s me.”

 

James eyes widened as the pieces clicked together. “You mean—”

 

“I’m the wee lesbian,” Clare confirmed, nodding her head miserably. She was pulling at the end of her shirtsleeve, unable to meet his eyes.

 

“I’m sorry we published it, Clare,” said James sincerely, suddenly furious with himself. How could he have thought that was a good idea? To splash someone else’s essay, even if it _was_ anonymous, all over the school, without her permission? It had seemed like a way to spread support and understanding, at the time—but they’d clearly miscalculated. Clare looked on the verge of a total breakdown.

 

“It’s not that,” she said softly, “I entered the wee contest, didn’t it? I wanted people to read it. It’s just, after today, everyone was so understanding, even the Sisters, and I thought I might, you know, _come out_ to more than just me ma and da. But I just started with Erin, and it _did not_ go well!”

 

“Erin?” James repeated, genuinely confused. _Erin_ , horrid to Clare over something like that? That didn’t seem like her. What did it matter if Clare was a lesbian? It didn’t change anything. “What did she say?”

 

“She told me to put meself back in, James!”

 

He tried to concentrate enough to successfully unpack that, he really did, but after repeating the sentence three more times in his head, it still made no more sense than it had the first time. He gave up. “I’m sorry, come again?”

 

“Well I said, ‘I’m trying to come out to you,’ and she said ‘well put yourself back in!’” Clare barked, as though this should have been obvious to him, “I swear it, she did!”

 

James grimaced. That didn’t sound anything like the Erin he knew. How could she have said something like that to her best friend? “I believe you, Clare,” he said finally, rolling it over in his mind, “It’s just… Well, do you want me to, I don’t know, talk to her?”

 

“No, I don’t want you to talk to her! I don’t need her! I don’t need anyone! I’ll be grand without her!” Well, James didn’t believe _that_ for one minute, but he held his tongue. It was better to let Clare rant. The thought of them fighting made him nervous. Since his mum had left, the girls were sort of all he had. What he would do if that severed? It wouldn’t, he reminded himself, sternly. This was Erin and Clare. Erin was just being...well, he didn't know what Erin was being, but she’d come ‘round.

 

“At least let me walk you home,” he said finally, standing up and slinging his bag over his shoulders. Clare conceded, getting to her feet as well.

 

The short trek across town from the school to Clare’s house was one mostly of silence. Clare seemed lost in her thoughts, kicking up the gravel angrily with every step. Only once the blue shutters and grey fence signifying the Devlin house had come into view did James decide to hedge the topic again. “Are you going to tell the others then, Clare? About your article?”

 

Clare stopped in front of her fence, swinging around to face him. “Aye. Erin will tell them now, anyway.”

 

“Erin will come around,” James insisted, hoping he was right. Clare looked as though she didn’t quite believe him. “I’m, erm, I’m glad you told me,” he added. And he was. He knew he had only been in the right place at the right time, but the fact that she’d trusted him enough to tell him, even before Orla and Michelle, meant a lot.

 

“James…you don’t think I’m…weird, do you?” Clare asked hesitantly, her voice suddenly softening. She looked strangely vulnerable waiting for his response, not like he’d ever seen her before.

 

Impulsively, James grabbed one of her hands and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Well, if I’m being honest, I still think the lot of you are completely mental.” Clare smirked. “ _But_ , you’re not weird for being gay. At all. You’re just more…you.”

 

Clare gave him a slight smile. “Thanks, James. I’m glad you’re here.” Then she turned and jogged the last paces to her house. James glanced at his watch. He was supposed to have been home an hour ago. Aunt Deirdre was going to kill him.

* * *

 

On Sunday afternoon, he and Michelle were sat in the sitting room, trying to do their maths homework (in between Michelle huffing about it every five seconds), when the doorbell rang. Overhead, footsteps could be heard suggesting Deirdre was on her way to answer, but Michelle, grabbing immediately at the chance to set down her book, leapt to her feet. “I’ve got it!” she called up the stairs. The footsteps stopped. James went back to copying down the necessary equations onto his grid paper.

“What the--?” Michelle’s voice echoed from the doorway.

“Where’s James?” That was Erin. James’ head shot up as Orla, Erin and Michelle came traipsing into the room, Erin carrying a plastic bag filled with what looked like enamel badges.

 

“What’s this about, Erin?” Michelle demanded, looking between her and Orla for answers. Orla just shrugged unhelpfully.

 

“Well, I was still feeling bad about how, um, how I reacted when Clare came out to me. And I know we made up at the talent show, but I was thinking, and then I had Orla come with me, and we sorta, well…we sorta went overboard, a bit, maybe…” Erin overturned the bag and dumped its contents on the ground. A couple dozen badges, all shaped like tiny rainbows, scattered over the rug. “I thought we could wear them, you know, to show Clare how much we support her and, erm, to express solidarity and all that.” She looked around at them all eagerly. James thought, or perhaps he only imagined, that her eyes might’ve lingered a little longer over his. He looked away. “Well,” Erin said, “What do you think?”

 

“Jesus fuck Erin, how many of these did you buy?” asked Michelle, plucking one from the pile and pinning it onto the front of her jumper.

 

“All the ones Dennis had in stock,” Orla answered for her, as Erin looked away guiltily, “But don’t worry, he’s getting more in on Tuesday.”

 

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with each of us having more than one, is there?” Erin justified testily, huffing at Michelle’s exasperated expression, “One for our uniforms, and one for each of our jackets….”

 

“…and one for every living, breathing creature in Derry….” Michelle added.

 

“Shove off, Michelle,” James said, cutting across his cousin for once, “I think it’s a smashing idea, Erin. Clare will love it.” He grabbed his jean jacket from where he'd slung it over the back of the sofa, fastening one of the pins unto a front pocket. Then he grabbed another for his school blazer, as well. Erin beamed at him, looking quite proud of herself. It made him feel strangely warm.

 

“It _is_ a good idea,” Michelle conceded, “But Erin, ya definitely went overboard. Just take a look at Orla.” James and Erin turned in unison. Sure enough, Orla was pinning on what looked to be her eighth rainbow, not onto her jacket but into her curls.

 

“Lay off those, Orla,” Erin snapped, “You get  _two_. The rest are Clare’s.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Upon re-read this chapter is like... very angsty. Apparently I can't write something and not include a healthy dose of pain. Whoops. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone for your lovely comments on chapter one! One final chapter to come.

Every bone in his body was pounding. No, that wasn’t right. It was his _head_ that was pounding. His bones were _aching_. He was finding it very hard to focus. The whole length of him felt pinned to the ground. Carefully, James tried to blink open his eyes, but it only one of them seemed to be working. The other felt swollen and huge. He assumed it had been blackened.

 

He wasn’t sure how it had happened, exactly. He’d just been walking home from the errand his aunt had sent him on, to pick up some tomato sauce for their dinner. Michelle was supposed to have gone with him, but she’d insisted that he must be truly helpless if he couldn’t even find his own way to the grocery by this point, and then gone back to chatting up Arthur O’Neill over the phone. So he’d just gone alone—no big deal, or so he’d thought. He’d been cornered almost as soon as he’d left the shop, by a scruffy looking group of boys who didn’t look much older than he was and whose vendetta against the “English colonizer pricks” was now written clearly across James’ face in welts and bruises. Really, he should be grateful this hadn’t happened before now. He’d managed to make it nearly a full year in Derry without serious incident. He supposed his luck was due to run out sooner or later. If only it had been later.

 

He forced his good eye open the full way and blinked in the light of the sun, which was just beginning to go down. He was in an alleyway not far from the shop, lying spread eagle across the uneven cobblestones. He flexed his fingers and toes. They appeared to still be working, at least. But when he tried to sit up, a shooting pain shot through his left arm. He tried to move his hand, but his wrist was bent at an odd angle. He was no doctor, but he could only conclude that it was broken, and cradled it gently in his good hand. It must have snapped when he tried to catch his fall. Grand.

 

There wasn’t much to remember about the assault. They’d caught him off guard, and it wasn’t exactly like he had much fighting experience. He was an easy target, and his futile attempts to ward them off had only resulted in them punching him harder. They’d kicked him around some more once they’d gotten him to the ground. Then they’d disappeared. Shakily, James tried getting to his feet.

 

He had to lean against the wall to catch his breathe multiple times as he made his way out of the alley. The jar of spaghetti sauce had shattered over the cobblestones, its contents splattered all across the bottom of his trousers. At first he tried to pick up a few of the glass pieces so that no one would step on a shard accidentally, but soon gave it up. He left the broken jar behind, edging towards the street. The Mallon’s lived several blocks away—Normally an easy walk, but not in his state. He wasn’t sure he could make it home without blacking out, even if he kept taking breaks like he was. And what if one of the lads who’d attacked him came back? He doubted it, of course, but the possibility, however small, sent a jolt of panic through him.

 

The closest option was Erin or Orla’s, who both lived just around the bend. Normally he’d never want to bother them with something like this, but he wasn’t exactly in a position to be polite at the moment. The boys had done a right number on him. The thought of sitting down inside, in a place where he wouldn’t be so nervous, was too enticing to let pass. Ever so slowly, he hobbled his way down the familiar path to the Quinn’s, still clutching his battered arm against his side.

 

On the way, he ruled out going to Erin’s—she was bound to overreact and freak, which was the last thing James wanted. No, he’d go next door instead, to Orla and Sarah’s. If he could only rest there for a moment or two, he could probably make it home before long. _Home_. It was odd, how he was beginning to think of this place as home. Not just his Aunt and Uncle’s, but all of Derry. His life in London seemed like a far-away, half-forgotten dream.

 

Decision made, he bypassed the Quinn’s and carefully made his way to the McCool’s front door, rapping on it with his uninjured hand. He could only hope they were home—they seemed to spend more time next door than not. He was quite relieved, then, when Orla answered the door, dressed in one of her step aerobics outfits. She must have just gotten back from a class.

 

“James?” she said worriedly, giving him a once over, “What happened to you?”

 

“Can I come in Orla?” he asked by way of giving an explanation. She stepped aside, allowing him to step over the threshold. He had only been over to Orla’s once or twice, since she and the rest of the gang practically spent all of their time over at Erin’s, anyway. Like the Quinn’s, the McCool house was small but comfortable. Stairs led up to all the bedrooms, while the ground floor was made up of a small sitting room and an even smaller kitchen. The walls were covered in drawings and paintings Orla had made over the years, mostly landscapes of Derry or the sea. She was quite talented. Sarah had highlighted her favorites with bold, colorful frames.

 

All of the girls’ houses were like that—personal, cluttered, warm. They were the opposite of whatever his flat in London had been. His own mum was absolutely no fuss, a trait which had transferred over to their sleekly designed, always tip-top flat, which lacked both color and personality. James had never realized what he was missing until he’d come here.

 

“Mammy!” Orla called upstairs in passing, not waiting to hear if her mum responded before leading James into the kitchen. He slumped into one of the wooden chairs surrounding their round kitchen table and watched as Orla riffled through the cabinets, finally pulling out a first aid kit.  
  


“You really don’t have to—” James began, but Orla cut across him.

 

“Who did it?”

 

“No one,” he lied easily, flinching in pain as she swept a cloth of ointment across one of the cuts on his face. “I tripped on the cobblestones outside of the shops.”

 

Orla’s hand stilled and she pulled back to give him another once over. Her face looked critical. Then, to his relief, she nodded. “Aye, I’ve been there myself, I have. Rough fall this time around though, eh James?”

 

James opened his mouth to answer, but Ms. McCool entered, pinning her hair back as she walked. “What is it, love?” Sarah asked. Orla stood back to let her see him.

 

“Hi Ms. McCool,” James said weakly, raising his good hand in greeting. Orla’s mum gapped at him.

 

“James, you poor dear! What a state you’re in. What did those Catholic boys do to ye?”

           

“No, mammy,” Orla said, “You’ve got it wrong. I thought it was them too, see, but James here just tripped on the cobblestones, he did.”

 

“Did he now?” Sarah said, looking at her daughter indulgently.  

 

Behind Orla, James nodded. “I did, Ms. McCool, really.” He couldn’t tell if she believed him, but she insisted on calling next door regardless. Minutes later, Erin, flanked by both of her parents as well as her granddad, came bursting through the door, her mum carrying a first aid kit twice the size of the one Orla was digging through.

 

“Feckin’ hell, James, you’ve never looked worse,” Erin exclaimed, ignoring her mother’s admonishment for her language and hurrying toward him. Unabashedly, she placed her hands on either side of his face, tilting it to get a better look at his busted eye. His good one met hers, which were opened wide in shock.

 

“I think I’ll get to stitch him up,” Orla whispered to Erin excitedly, waving a needle from the first aid kit in front of his face as she said it. James recoiled immediately, trying to get as far away from her as possible and only afterward regretting it, when Erin’s soft hands dropped from his cheeks and a surge of pain shot through his arm.

 

“Um, you’ll do no such thing!” he snapped at Orla, shoving away her looming hand.

 

“I take offense at that!” Orla responded, backing away from him as though he’d cut her with a knife. Nonetheless, she replaced the needle in it’s pouch, albeit with great reluctance. At least assured that he wasn’t about to be stitched up by the likes of Orla’s shaky hands, James resigned himself to her and Erin fussing over him while Erin’s ma called his aunt Deirdre. As they poked at his wounds, He repeated to Erin the same story about the cobblestones, which he could tell she didn’t believe. The noise from the phone call echoed in the background.

 

_“Yes Deirdre, he’s safe.”_ Pause. _“He says he only fell, the poor wean.”_ Pause again, then, _“Hold on, I’ll ask him.”_

 

“James dear, your Aunt wants to know if you saved the sauce—” Mary called to him. Reluctantly, James admitted he’d dropped it when he fell, frowning as he thought of his aunt’s reaction. She was bound to be upset with him for ruining their dinner. _“Bad news, Deirdre, it’s lost. But I’ve myself an extra jar, I’ll send it on over with Gerry when he brings James ‘round….”_

 

“I’m not as daft as Orla, James,” Erin said from in front of him, cutting off the sounds of her ma’s voice “I know you didn’t _fall.”_ She let Orla take over at dabbing at his face and moved to sit beside him. The adults were all huddled in the foyer now, but they kept glancing over at him enough to make it obvious who they were discussing.

 

James gave up. There was no use in telling her otherwise, so he just said, “It’s not a big deal, Erin.”

 

“It very much _is_ a big deal!” She persisted. James only sighed. This was why he hadn’t gone to Erin’s in the first place.

 

“No, it’s not. Look, Erin. I’m English, and I’m in Derry. I’ve got to get used to this sort of thing if I’m going to stay, haven’t I?” The thing of it was, he couldn’t even find it in him to be all that mad at the blokes who had done it. Of course, he wished they hadn’t, if only so the incessant pounding in his skull would finally cease—but he sort of understood it, as well. The people of Derry were in the right to not want anything to do with the English after how the country had treated them. He understood why they didn’t like him. Hell, the longer he was in Derry, the more he hated himself for the same reasons. Now, he probably wouldn’t _beat someone up_ over it, but all the same….

 

“Well it’s not your fault you’re English. It’s not worth _hittin’_ you over!”

 

“Why are we talking about James bein’ English?” Orla interrupted, bending between them, “What does that have to do with the cobblestones?”

 

“He didn’t fall on the stupid cobblestones, Orla!” Erin snapped, “He took a beating from some of the lads from Christian Brother Boys. Could you stop being so thick all the time!”

 

Orla’s face immediately fell. She looked utterly crestfallen. “—the cobblestones are wobbly, Erin. He could have fallen.”

 

“I could have,” James reassured her, sending a look at Erin to silence her retort. “I definitely could have. But this time Orla…I didn’t.”

 

Orla recoiled, clearly offended by the earlier lie. He sighed and added, “I’m sorry, Orla.”

 

They were interrupted by the parents, who came in to tell them that Gerry would be taking James home. Still, Erin’s mum didn’t let him leave for another hour, fussing over him as she carefully redid Orla and Erin’s patchy first aid work and gave her full assessment of his broken arm.

* * *

 

“What the fuck, dickhead?” came Michelle’s shouted greeting as he walked past her door to his own room. James internally groaned. He’d already been apprehended and then coddled by Deirdre and Martin downstairs, and now more than anything he just wanted to collapse into his bed and forget the day had ever happened. Michelle continued, “My ma yelled at me for twenty minutes for not going with ye to the stupid shop! You really couldn’t’ve stayed on your own two feet long enough to walk the length of Derry? Jesus fucking Christ, James.”

 

He ignored her, sagging into his room and trying to shut his door on her anger. Unfortunately, Michelle had followed him. He spun around, hoping the sight of him would be enough to shut her up. It was. Michelle just gaped at him, looking him up and down.

 

“This was those fuckin’ Christian Brothers wasn’t it?” she exclaimed. James just shrugged. “Was it Sean Brennan? Or that fucking eejit Ryan Callaghan?”

 

“Believe it or not Michelle, I don’t know,” James said sarcastically, “I didn’t exactly get a good look at them as they were pounding my face in.”

 

Michelle’s shoulders, squared as though braced for a fight, seemed suddenly to sag inwards. “At least it wasn’t that great of a face to begin with,” she said unhelpfully, her voice softened in what James guessed was supposed to be her best attempt at sympathy.

 

“ _Thanks_ , Michelle. Now if you’ll leave—” He started to close his door, but Michelle slid her foot into the frame just in time, forcing the door back open.

 

“Do you want to, um, talk about it?” she asked awkwardly, looking immensely uncomfortable. James cracked a smile, almost wanting to say yes just to see her squirm through the conversation. But he decided to spare her.

 

“I’m good, Michelle. But…thanks.”

 

She nodded, allowing him at last to close his door and slump over to his bed, collapsing into it in relief at finally being stationary for good. Every bone in his body seemed to settle into the sheets with immediate relief. He could sleep for a year.

 

 

Michelle didn’t mention the incident to him again, but she never let him walk through town on his own again, either.

 

* * *

 

James felt as though his life in Derry was beginning to stabilize. Since the spaghetti sauce incident, he thankfully hadn’t gotten into any more physical confrontations, and he was actually starting to find that he liked living at his aunt and uncle’s, quite a lot actually. It was nice to not have to wait around for the Tube just to get to school in the morning, to instead be able to walk the length of the entire town in one go. He was even starting to like Our Lady of Immaculate Sorrow (though he’d mentally changed his third wish, on the list of things he’d ask for should he ever meet a genie, from his childhood dream of starring in his own episode of Doctor Who, to his new dream of never having to hear Jenny Joyce attempting to sing ever again—in this or _any_ lifetime). He had learned to accept Michelle’s snide comments over his very existence, Sister Michael’s no-bullshit policy, and even Orla’s insistence that the gang go with her to a step aerobics class twice each week. Most importantly, he was beginning to accept that his mother wasn’t coming back. At least not anytime soon.

 

Since she had left (i.e. abandoned him), James’ mum had called him a total of five times and sent him an average of one postcard every month. He hardly knew what she was up, because her messages were almost always brief and rarely contained direct responses to any of the questions he asked her in his own lengthy letters. In the card telling him that her divorce from Paul had at last been finalized, James’ had been able to read between the lines enough to deduce that she was already seeing someone new. She had also mentioned that her adhesive label company was finally beginning to gain some traction, and that she was rolling out the first prototypes. Beyond these small details, he knew next to nothing. She never wrote _I’ll be back to get you soon_ , or _London’s not the same without you_ , or _I miss you_ , or any of the other words he longed to hear from her. He was beginning to understand that she never would. The thought didn’t bother him as much as it once had.

 

The truth was, he had friends here now. Going back to London would just mean running back to one set of things he’d lost only to leave more behind him. The thought of leaving the girls made him feel oddly lonely. They were the closet thing to family he had these days, and they sort of made being in Derry worth it.

 

At the least, they were the reason he was currently stood outside Finnula’s chip shop, waiting for the first-year girl he’d given an extra fiver to to come out with his order. He hoped she’d hurry it up in there, because the stench was wafting out onto the street and starting to make him nauseous…he really did hate chipperies. Still, it was going to be worth it for the looks he knew he would get from the girls in return for his effort, when he arrived with their greasy dinners. They were all coming over to Michelle’s tonight. His aunt and uncle were both working, which meant they were free to celebrate in whatever manner suited them. And celebrate they would: he had been in Derry for a full year now.

 

The small, bubbling girl returned, at last, with her arms full. James rushed to take all the bags from her. He had to be getting home. Clare, Orla, and Erin would be arriving any time now.

 

 

When he walked through the door, he could hear their voices coming from the sitting room, chatting loudly over the noise of the news on the telly. James followed the sounds of his friend’s laughter, looping through the kitchen to reach them. As predicted, there was a round of riotous cheering when he came around the corner, bearing their feast.

 

“No. Way.” Erin exclaimed, pulling a container of chips out from one of several bags. It was the first of Fionnula’s chips she’d seen in nearly a year. Fionnula had given them a lifetime ban…and seemed less than willing to give them an early parole. “How’d ye do it, James?”

 

“I just waited around until someone from school showed up, then paid her to put the order in for us.”

 

“Absolutely cracker plan, James,” Orla grinned, pulling out the rest of the food and passing it around the circle so that everyone could get their share. Even Michelle was beaming at him, clearly thrilled.

 

“James,” said Clare hesitantly, “Don’t get me wrong, this is class, but aren’t we supposed to be celebrating for _you_? You don’t even like fish and chips.”

 

James simply shrugged, pulling over one of the boxes and breaking into his chips. It was true enough that he didn’t love Fionnula’s. If it was up to him, he’d much rather they order Chinese, or even cook up something themselves at home. But in the end, he’d rather make their day than avoid one night of greasy food. The longer he stuck around here, the more he was realizing that for all their teasing, he was happiest when they were happy. _God_ that sounded cheesy, even in his head. He hid his grin by swallowing a bite of crispy cod.

 

“Girls,” he said, looking around at them and trying to mask his excitement, “I’ve had an idea.”

 

“That’s never good,” Michelle snipped, but Clare shushed her.

 

“You know how my mum went to England to get an abortion, but then she didn’t?” The girls glanced at one another in confusion, as if unclear of how exactly they were supposed to respond. James plowed on. “Well, I’ve been thinking, that means my dad was from Derry, too, doesn’t it? Maybe he’s still here.”

 

“What’s your point, dickhead?” Michelle asked, clearly tired of this conversation already.

 

“Well,” he continued, thinking it was kind of obvious, “I want to find him, if I can. Introduce myself.” None of them responded. Clare looked almost panicked, and Erin sort of grimaced. “What?” he said, “What is it?”

 

“What if he doesn’t know about ye?” Clare said delicately, pulling her chips closer for comfort. “Won’t it be a bit…uncomfortable?”

 

“Well it’s loads better than not knowing him at all, don’t you think?” James argued, struggling to hide his disappointment at their reactions.

 

“I don’t know…” Erin piped out, glancing at Michelle, who was looking resolutely down at her meal. James had the uncomfortable feeling that they all knew something he didn’t.

 

“Is there someth—”

 

“Don’t do it James,” Orla said firmly, looking oddly aware and suddenly serious. “It’s not worth it.” Erin reached over to her, taking her hand.

 

“This isn’t like that, Orla,” Erin told her gently. Orla looked extremely upset, and James felt his heart sink.

 

He looked between them, “Isn’t like what? What’s happening here?”

 

Orla was gathering up her takeaway. “I think I’ll eat this somewhere else while you tell him,” she said quietly, leaving the room in a rush. James stared after her, endlessly confused. He turned back to the girls, all of whom were now avoiding his gaze.

 

“I’ll go keep her company,” Clare said hurriedly, picking up her own food and following after Orla. A long silence followed in their wake.

 

James looked at his cousin and Erin. “Okay, will one of you _please_ tell me what’s going on now, please?”

 

Erin spoke. “A few years ago, Orla wanted to know more about her da, so she started bugging Auntie Sarah about it. Only it didn’t go so well. He wasn’t, um, he wasn’t good people.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Michelle rolled her eyes. “Jesus, do we have to spell everything out for ye? He was an abusive prick, wasn’t he. He would beat on Sarah, and then he left when Orla was like, three. Arsehole.”

 

James swallowed, looking back at the doorway Orla had left through, suddenly feeling guilty. “I didn’t mean to upset her—”

 

Erin patted his hand reassuringly. “It’s all right. She’s mostly fine about it now, as much as she can be. Only,” she glanced at Michelle before continuing, “for a _sensitive_ person, thinking your dad must be one thing and then discovering he’s not can be a bit…unsettling, to where you wish you’d never looked into it at all.” The more he looked at her, the more James suspected that she was no longer talking about Orla.

 

He nodded, pulling himself to his feet. “Right. Okay. I’ll go talk to her, shall I?”

 

Outside, Clare and Orla were sat on the front stoop, passing chips between them and giggling over something Clare had said. James cleared his throat and their heads spun in tandem. “Orla, can I speak to you?”

 

Clare stood up to leave and James took her spot on the stoop. Orla offered him the last of her chips, which he waved away. “Erin and Michelle told me,” he began awkwardly, “about your dad. I’m really sorry.”

 

Orla nodded. “You should find your da if you want to though James, he’s probably not like mine, eh?”

 

James nodded, looking out onto the street, lost in thought. He knew next to nothing about his father. His mum had always changed the subject whenever he asked. He’d always just assumed it was because she was bitter, like she was about all the men in her life. But maybe it wasn’t that, after all. What would he do if his dad _did_ turn out to be like Orla’s? Or what if Clare was right, and he didn’t know he had a kid, and he didn’t want one? There were all sorts of ways his dad could turn out to be rubbish. Was it really worth finding out?

 

“I’m not sure I want to anymore, actually,” he admitted.

 

Orla’s face brightened. She nodded in understanding. “Well, you can share Uncle Gerry with me and Erin and Anna, if ye want to James,” Orla offered. “He does well for himself, Uncle Gerry.” She paused to lick sauce from the tip of one of her fingers, at once back to regular self, “You can’t have Grandda Joe, though.”

 

James figured now was probably not the best time to tell Orla that her granddad scared him shitless, so he just nodded. “Thanks, Orla. Do you want to go back in then? We can’t let those three choose the movie without us if we want to actually enjoy ourselves.”

 

“Aye,” Orla agreed, standing up and extending an arm to help him stand as well. He accepted gratefully, allowing Orla to pull him up. She was stronger than she looked, Orla.

 

He decided it was best not to try and track down his father. He wouldn’t want it to ruin what he already had.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final part! Thank you so much to everyone who has left me kudos and/or written me a review. I had a lot of fun writing this and getting to play with these characters. I hope you enjoy this last chapter!

            “So after Jenny stole that red dress out from under her, Mae found a dress that’s partially the same color blue as mine. We’re going to coordinate!” Clare said excitedly, chattering away excitedly about the prom and her date as they ate their lunches in the canteen.

 

Across the table, Erin scowled. “Jenny didn’t _steal_ anything, Clare, she had it on hold. Your new friend Mae was just bein’ rude.”

 

Clare sent her a glare. The two were still semi-fighting after the disaster that had been their group excursion to the shopping center to chose outfits for the prom. Erin had been making snide remarks about Mae ever since, clearly feeling jilted by Clare’s sudden infatuation with Our Lady’s newest student. James, like Michelle and Orla, usually just let them go at it, but if he was being honest, he had a bad feeling about this ‘Mae.’ Erin was right…she _had_ been rude to Jenny, and she’d frankly been a bit rude to the rest of them as well. Erin kept insisting that Mae was constantly shooting her dirty looks, and James was inclined to believe her. She wasn’t exactly friendly, Mae.

 

Still, voicing his opinion was futile, as _apparently_ Mae was soon to be his replacement in the group. Michelle had done an official vote yesterday at lunch, and only Erin had voted to keep him in. Clare was blinded by her crush, and Michelle was Michelle, but if James was being honest he was still a little offended by Orla’s vote. As if he didn’t feel like enough of a shit already. He just kept telling himself that they probably wouldn’t  _actually_ kick him out of the group. Why the hell couldn’t he and Mae _both_ stay in if they liked her that much? They had to be joking. They _probably_ were joking. But a small, persistent voice which he pushed to the back of his mind kept insisting that they were definitely, very much _not_ joking. He stabbed rather angrily at a piece of tomato in his salad.

 

“James?  _James_?”

 

His head shot up to find them all staring at him in bemusement. “Sorry, what?”

 

“Clare was talking to ye.”

 

“Oh.” He turned to Clare, “What is it?”

 

She looked at him a bit funny. “I was only saying again that I’m sorry I can’t go with ye to the dance.”

 

“Aye,” Erin added, “Me too. But I’ve called John Paul to remind him and he’s told me he’s coming ‘round at seven to pick me up. So it’s officially official. I’m going to the prom with _the best ride in Derr_ y. But, I am sorry, James.”

 

“Oh,” he said, scrunching up his nose in confusion. “But I’m not going anyway, remember? I’ve got the Doctor Who convention.” The girls all nodded, exchanging knowing looks between them. “ _What?”_ he repeated, more testily this time.

 

“I’d go with you, James,” chimed in Orla, a step behind in the conversation as always and apparently oblivious to what he’d _just_ said, “Only you’re third best on my list of best fellas, and my number one already said yes.” She went back to eating her bon-bon.

 

“Am I not actually speaking English right now or are you lot suddenly deaf? I don’t need anyone to go to the dance with me because I’m not  _going_ to the dance!”

 

            “Again, we’re really sorry about that James,” echoed Clare. He looked between them. They were all giving him matching looks of pity. Good lord. What were they possibly on about this time?

 

            “I’m sorry girls but I’m _really_ not following you here….”

 

            “Oh come off it, James!” Michelle snapped frustratingly, taking a loud bite of her pickle sandwich, “We know you don’t actually want to go to that stupid creep convention…I mean, why would you? You’re only going to it so you can avoid having to go the dance alone. It’s a bit sad, really.”

 

            His mouth dropped involuntary. The others were all nodding along to Michelle’s demented explanation, as if they actually agreed with it. “Is that _really_ what all of you think? That I’m not going to the prom because I couldn’t find anyone to go with?” He did a poor job of hiding the strain in his voice.

 

            “Well, yeah,” Erin said delicately, as though she were talking to a small child. She was looking at him as if she didn’t realize how completely mental she sounded. “I mean, since Katya—”

 

            “You haven’t gotten any action since Katya dumped ye months ago, James,” Michelle interrupted, “And it’s not like you’re gonna get any anytime soon, seeing as you’re English, all the Russians have left, and you’re well, you.”

 

            “But we want you to know there’s no shame in going alone. No shame in it at all,” Clare added determinedly, as if they’d all rehearsed this beforehand and it had finally reached the time for her to recite the crucial line. James blinked rapidly, trying to wake up from whatever nightmare he’d landed in. They couldn’t _possibly_ be serious. But when he opened his eyes they were all still looking at him expectedly.

 

            “Right. Okay. I think I’ve finished with my lunch actually,” he said, abruptly gathering his trash and standing up. All he knew was that he had to get away from that table, and away from them, fast. He couldn’t believe his closest mates could actually be that delusional. Did they even listen to him when he talked? He’d been telling them for _weeks_ about the convention, and more so, how excited he was for it. He threw his trash in the bin and walked briskly out of the canteen, though there was still another 15 minutes of the lunch break before their next class, only just catching earshot of Michelle’s “Jesus, what’s _his_ problem?” on his way out.

 

            He walked through two hallways before realizing he had nowhere he was actually headed, and sunk into a bench outside the school library, his head dropping to his hands. He couldn’t believe them. He could get a date if he wanted to!

 

…Only, that wasn’t really true, was it? The girls were right. Being English made him as good as blacklisted on the Derry dating scene. The only reason he had nearly managed to shag Katya was because she was Ukrainian, with no care whatsoever for the political and social contexts of the United Kingdom. With everyone else, he was absolutely screwed. James could practically see the next few years stretched unpleasantly before him. In every version of the future, he was stuck in Derry, unfortunately celibate, until he went off to University _at the least_. He frowned into his hands—wanting, if he was being honest, to go home, lock himself in his room, and have a bit of a cry. He should be used to their teasing by now, he knew. And he might have been okay with it, if they also weren’t simultaneously plotting to kick him out the group, and if that tiny voice in his head didn’t sort of believe them when they said it. Goddammit, he was _sick_ of this town.

 

            The bell signaling the end of lunch came far too quickly for his liking, but James hurriedly wiped at his wet eyes, picked up his backpack, and headed to history, switching seats with Gael Canavan so he wouldn’t be next to Clare. He avoided the girls, with partial success, for the rest of the day, though he could feel their eyes on him wherever he went. By the time the final bell sounded, he had put the prom fiasco as far behind him as possible and was thinking instead about the convention that evening. He’d told his stepdad all about it in his letters, and in response Paul had sent him a rather good replica of the Doctor’s striped scarf in the post. The thought of it, draped across his desk chair at home, brought a smile to his face and made him wish Paul was here to go with him tonight. The old, familiar longing for home, his _actual_ home, swept through him once more. When the last bell finally rang, he skipped stopping at his locker to ensure that he’d be alone on his walk back to Mallon’s.

* * *

 

 

            Mrs. Quinn rang just as he was pulling on his loafers. Deirdre answered the phone, and he could hear her mumbling, in an unusually soft voice, into the receiver. Then his Aunt called him in and handed over the phone wordlessly.

 

            John Paul had stood Erin up, Mary told him. James tightened his grip on the telephone, knuckles going white. His anger from earlier seemed to redirect itself from the girls immediately onto John Paul. How could he just ditch Erin like that? What an absolute toerag. James _knew_ Erin never should have raised him above David Donnelly on her list.

 

There was no decision to be made, his answer was already on the tip of his tongue. “I’ll be right over.”

 

            He slipped out of his shoes again and ran back up the stairs, taking them two at once to minimize the time it took. Erin had had to wait long enough. It didn’t take long for him to get ready. Quickly, he stripped out of his jumper and coat, meant to mimic the 4thDoctor’s signature outfit, and instead pulled from his closet the black suit his mother had insisted he bring over from England, though he’d never worn it back home or here. He tossed his old clothes aside and then spent a few minutes fighting a losing battle with his hair, which was always hopeless. In the end he managed to get it to hold with some of the fancy hair gel he’d bought from Hair and Flair at Father Peter’s recommendation. It didn’t look half bad. He left on the scarf. Paul had been kind enough to send it over, the least he could do was wear it. Besides, it added a nice flair to the look. Last minute, he decided to stop at a shop on the way to get flowers, all the while questioning if it was bit much. It wasn’t like he actually _fancied_ Erin. No really, it wasn’t!

 

            James walked quickly to the Quinn home, cutting down all of the side street shortcuts only to wish he had a few more blocks to go once he’d reached the front door. Staring at the door handle, he suddenly got cold feet. What if Erin thought he was John Paul when he rang the doorbell? He didn’t suppose Ma Mary had told her he was coming, after all. She would get her hopes up that John Paul had finally come to get her, only to open the door and find him instead. The guy whom she’d made perfectly clear at lunch today was absolutely undateable. Grand.

 

            Standing there, staring at her door but making absolutely no effort to knock on it, James was increasingly feeling like the world’s biggest tosser.  _Just go up there and knock, you idiot,_ a voice inside him screamed. He felt his legs begin to move even as a more conscious part of him yelled at him to retreat. What if she was mad? Or if she didn’t want to go with him?

 

            But as he looked at the house, he imagined Erin inside of it, sat with her parents, absolutely miserable for being stood up. _Oh god, what if she was crying?_ It was a genuine possibility, and he didn’t know what he’d do with it if she were. But he at least could go in there and make sure she was all right. He could manage that much.

 

            He rapped twice on the door before he could second guess himself any more than he already had. _It will be fine_ , was on loop is his head like an inspirational mantra. The empty, silent space seemed to stretch on for ages. Then Erin cracked open the door, and upon seeing him, flung it all the way open.

 

            She had outdone herself. Wearing the blue-green satin dress she’d chosen to impress John Paul, with her hair pinned back into a 1950’s style updo, and her lips bright red, she looked like a movie star on the red carpet. It wasn’t very her, and she looked extremely uncomfortable. His rage at John Paul bubbled up again. Looking at her, James felt his voice catch in his throat. “Um, your mum called me,” he choked out finally, trying to gauge her disappointment right off the bat. She didn’t seem too upset to see him, actually. When she asked about his “creep convention,” it was with a broad grin on her face that only widened when he told her that it didn’t matter. Then she told him she’d be back in a minute, and disappeared up the stairs.

 

            When she came down, she looked more stunning than she had before, because she looked like Erin. She had changed out of the tight dress and into a yellowy number adorned with little white flowers that cut off at her knees. He assumed this was the dreaded Easter dress, matching Orla’s. It looked lovely on her, and he told her so. He couldn’t be certain, but he thought he saw her blush in return.

 

            They were the only two people out on the street, and her arm stayed tucked over his as they walked to the school side by side. He kept sneaking little glances at her, but whenever they made eye contact, he quickly turned away, staring at the pavement.

 

            “Thank you,” Erin said awkwardly, shooting him a small smile and looking rather unsure of herself, “For comin’ to get me. I didn’t think I would get to go, after John Paul, well, ye know….”

 

            James pulled her elbow more tightly against him, as if the pressure alone could reassure her. “John Paul’s a real wanker for ditching you, Erin,” he said, in a voice much harsher than his usual, “You know that, right?”

 

            Erin nodded but didn’t say a word, biting at her lip in that endearing way she did. James focused on the pavement again. He absolutely, completely _didn’t_ fancy Erin.

 

            “James,” Erin started again, “I’msorryforwhathappenedinthecanteentoday,”

 

            She said it so fast that it became a clump of a word, impossible for him to make out. “Sorry?”

 

            Erin took a deep breath, causing him to look back toward her. Now it was her who was staring at the pavement. “I’m sorry for what we said to ye today, about you not getting a date to the prom. We all knew how much you wanted to go to your creep—erm, _Doctor Who_ convention, what with your step da watching it with you an’ all, and we should never have listened to Michelle.”

 

            “What did Michelle say about it?”

 

            “Well. Um. That’s a good question, that is.” But she looked as if she thought the opposite, stalling for time, “She, um. Well, she told us she was worried about ye being lonely. More so than usual, because your ma hasn’t written in a while, and after all that with trying to find your da last month…. Anyway, she thought ye shouldn’t go to the convention on yer own, but come with us to the dance instead. But I think we came on a bit strong, in the end, yeah?”

 

            “It’s fine, Erin,” he said, though it hadn’t really been fine. Still, he was oddly touched that Michelle was worried about him. Her concern seemed to almost make up for her subsequent rudeness. “And I did want to go to the convention, but I’m glad that I’m here. I meant what I said earlier, you’re more important.”

 

            Erin’s head jerked up at him, a strange expression written across her face. “Actually, you said the convention wasn’t important, not that _I_ was _more_ important.”

 

            “Is there a difference?”

 

            “Aye,” Erin whispered, but she didn’t tell him what it was.

 

            They were nearing the school now, and were close enough to see the swarm of girls milling around outside with their dates.

 

            “So…just to be perfectly clear, you aren’t cross with me?” asked Erin, sounding hopeful. James smiled, leading her towards the school doors.

 

            “No, I’m not. C’mon Erin, let’s go dance.”

* * *

 

 

            When his mum suddenly showed up again in Derry, she hadn’t so much as written him a letter in over a month. The absolute last thing he’d been expecting was for her to show up, out of the blue, in Derry, and then trace him and his friends to Dennis’ Wee Shop, where they had been attempting to buy American flags for the president’s visit.

 

            It was Michelle who had to speak up when Erin and Clare lost it over stranger danger, because James himself was at a loss for words. There was his mum, whom he hadn’t seen in over a year, smiling up at him in her signature red lipstick. He kept blinking, thinking each time that when his eyes opened she’d be gone and her appearance proven to have been a mirage all along.

 

            A year and a half ago, hell, a year ago even, he’d have done anything for this moment. Now her appearance seemed cheap, feeble. He wondered vaguely what her motive could possibly be this time. She would never come back to Derry just for him.

 

            Still, it was as though he were magnetized to her. Whenever she beckoned, he followed. He couldn’t resist. Despite himself, James had missed her. It had been the same for months now. Something in a shop would remind him of her, or else he’d see his Aunt Deirdre from a distance and think, for a moment, that she was his mum instead. Then, in one swooping rush, he’d remember how much he still missed her, had missed her all along, and a longing for her would crash over him all over again. Then he’d feel ashamed. How could he miss someone who treated him like she did? She had up and left him, he didn’t owe her anything.

 

            He followed her anyway.

 

            They went to lunch, just the two of them, in a little diner in the town. His mum, for once, seemed interested in what he had to say. Sure, she spent half the meal complaining—about this town, about her sister, about the men she’d left swooning after her back in London. But she also wanted to “ _catch up_.” That’s what she told him. She wanted to hear all about his life here. And James told her. He told her about how much he liked Derry, how it was different than London, but in a good way. He told her about being attacked by some lads from the boys’ school, about passing all of his exams, about skipping town to go see Take That live in concert. And about his friends. The whole time she listened, and smiled at him, and ran her hand through his hair, cupping his face.

 

            “I’m so proud of you, Jamie,” she said. Oddly enough, the words made him want to cry. Maybe it was from waiting so long to hear them. He felt very relieved by her approval.

 

            “So why are you here, Mum?” he asked her finally. He’d been building up the courage all through their lunch and now he felt he was ready for whatever she had to tell him. He was certain this was a temporary stop. His mum didn’t settle down with anything, or _anyone_ , for very long.

 

            “I thought it was about time to come get my boy back,” his mum said, beaming at him, “I want you to come back to London with me, love.”

 

            James swallowed. Hard. Okay, so maybe he hadn’t been prepared to hear what she had to say after all. He hadn’t been expected _that_. Leave Derry? He couldn’t, not now. “What?” he mumbled.

 

            She launched in to a story about her adhesive labels, and how she hoped he could help her get the company off the ground. More importantly, she wanted them to be together again. She was swearing off men, she said, and focusing on her family. “You’re my family, Jamie, my _only_ family. I should never have left you in this awful hole,” she glanced around the diner they were eating at with a look of great distaste, as if she had left him, with the kitchen staff, there specifically. “I’m sorry, love.”

 

            “It hasn’t been so bad Mum, really,” he smiled at her in what he hoped was a reassuring sort of way, and she smiled back. Suddenly there seemed no point in being angry with her, or in staying in Derry. She wanted to be there for him, for them to be a family again. That was what he had always wanted too. And this might be their last chance. “So, when do we leave?”

* * *

 

 

            The problem was, he couldn’t decide how to tell the girls, so he kept pushing it off. The next day at school, as they talked about what all they’d do with Chelsea Clinton when she arrived, all he could think about was how he’d be gone day after next. He still didn’t say a word.

 

            His mum was staying at his aunt and uncle’s, and the situation was proving less than ideal for everyone. In the evenings he had to listen to his mum and his aunt fighting, and during the day, he had to listen to Michelle complaining about it to their friends. With that kind of reception toward his mother, he didn’t think any of them were going to be too thrilled when he announced he was leaving. Still, what was he to do? This was his chance to make things right with his mum. It was a chance for them to start over. He couldn’t turn that down, not even for his friends. So he waited. And waited. Until at last the day came for President Clinton’s visit and his own departure.

 

He had no choice but to tell them today.

 

It had been strange packing up all of his things that morning. In his suitcase, on top of his jumpers and trousers and t-shirts, he’d carefully placed all of his reminders of Derry: the cards Orla had drawn and given to him for his birthday and Christmas, and a copy of the school newspaper with Clare’s article on the front page, carefully pressed flat in a folder. He also had a book of poetry from Erin, which he’d agreed to read if she watched at least two episodes of Doctor Who with him in return, his ticket from the Take That concert in Belfast, and several packages of his favorite chocolate biscuits from Dennis’ shop, which just happened to be far better than any he could buy in England. He’d shut his suitcase lid on it all, dressed in red, white and blue to honor the president, and gone to meet his friends.

 

He waited as long as possible. When he finally said it, _I’m leaving_ , the words felt oddly permanent. He had been right to think they wouldn’t be happy. All of their faces fell in unison—even Michelle’s. But as he explained his decision best he could, he suddenly felt certain it was the right one. He didn’t belong here, he never really had. His time in Derry had been like a long, calming dream, from which he was waking up back into reality at last.

 

He should have known one of them would follow him. If he’d had guessed beforehand, he would have said Erin, or maybe Clare. Imagine his surprise when it was Michelle. _You’re a Derry Girl now, James_. The words echoed in his mind even after she’d stormed off. Still, he walked resolutely home, where his mum was waiting for him. _This is the right choice_ , he repeated to himself, even as his suitcase being loaded into the back of the taxi sent a sudden pang of regret surging through him.

 

 He said nothing as the car began its drive out of Derry. He let his mum talk, as she was apt to do. At the moment she was smugly telling him how glad she was to be getting out of this town. James felt as though he had a ball lodged in the back of his throat, choking him off slowly. He couldn’t stop thinking about what Michelle had said to him. _You’re a Derry Girl now, James_. “Stop,” he said softly, looking up at the driver. The man seemed taken off guard, looking back between he and his mother. “Stop,” he said again, louder and more firmly. His mum was looking at him in surprise.

 

“What are you doing, love?”

 

“I’m sorry mum, I really am. But I can’t go with you.”

 

“I don’t understand. Of course you can!” She reached out for his hand, but he shrugged out of her grasp.

 

“No,” he said softly but decisively. The word felt foreign on his tongue. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d said it to her. “I need to go back. I’ve got—I’ve got friends here now, Mum. I belong here.” As soon as he said it, he knew it was the truth. Derry was his home now, more than London had ever been. The girls were his family. “Pull over _please_ ,” he told the driver, who did so at last. They hadn’t gotten very far; the streets were jam packed with people on their way to see the President. His mum was staring after him in stunned silence. He opened the door. “I promise I’ll write,” he assured her, “I love you, Mum.” Then he was shutting the door and pulling his suitcase from the trunk, trying to get a grip on himself. Was he really doing this? He scanned the narrow houses on either side of him, and the throngs of people decked out in Dennis’ wonky American flags, heading in the same direction. Yes, he was.

 

The taxi drove off as soon as he had closed the trunk. He tried waving, but his mum didn’t turn back. James glanced at his watch and started towards home, his home with his aunt and uncle and Michelle, the whole time feeling as though a giant weight had been lifted off of his chest. He thought if he could drop his suitcase off fast enough he might still be able to surprise the girls at the president’s speech. He was looking forward to telling Michelle that for once, she was actually right.

 

_I am a Derry Girl._

* * *

            They were sitting in a clump together in the grass, Orla’s head resting in his lap and Erin’s shoulder ever so _slightly_ leaning into his in a way that was both agonizing and enticing. Clare was on the other side of Erin, drinking wine straight from the bottle, while Michelle was somewhere off to the side, having a boke in the bushes from downing to much straight vodka.

 

            Dennis’ wonky American flag was still draped around his shoulders, though the sun had now set and everyone had trickled home from seeing President Clinton. They were the only ones out on that hill, Derry stretched out below them in all directions like it was the only place in the world. James felt unabashedly, relentlessly happy.

 

            He was home.


End file.
